


end of days.

by badaltin



Series: end of days 'verse [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (or drug-like substance), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Apocalypse, Blood Drinking, Christian Mythology, Dark, Ghosts, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranormal, Rating May Change, References to Drugs, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 14:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/badaltin
Summary: Otabek has made some bad choices during his time on Earth. Competing in underground fighting rings for cash. Enabling his ghostly best friend's cigarette addiction. Not-quite-selling his soul to a smiling Thai demon to escape a personal hell.Agreeing to follow Yuri, though, has been both the best and worst decision of his entire life.





	end of days.

**Author's Note:**

> first note i'd like to make: i marked this as "choose not to use archive warnings" because i'm not sure how graphic the violence may get. there will not be any surprise major character death or rape or what have you, so if you were worried about that, i hope i could assuage those fears.
> 
> second thing: i've made (and will continue to make) quite a few extra tidbits for this series! here is a [master post](http://badaltin.tumblr.com/end-of-days) of all moodboards and doodles that will accompany this fic. general series moodboard (and rebloggable link to chapter one) can be found [here.](http://badaltin.tumblr.com/post/177110065285/end-of-days-an-otayuri-fic-by-badaltin-otabek) i've been working on this for _at least_ half a year, so this will be content-heavy. sorry not sorry.
> 
> enjoy!

“Don’t go to your fight tonight.”

Otabek blinks away the static mist that had descended peacefully upon his mind. He’d ignored the other man for the most part; the two of them had kept to themselves for the past ten minutes or so, standing idly at the stop and occasionally coughing the dreary city air out of their lungs. It was a nice morning a few seconds ago. But with this stranger now meeting his gaze straight-on, he isn’t sure of that anymore.

The man is Japanese. Mid-to-late twenties, taller than Otabek (whose height isn’t impressive by most metrics), blue-rimmed glasses, modest clothing. Not the easiest to overpower in a fight, but it could be done.

Otabek wonders how he recognizes him. Maybe a gambler? A scout?

The stranger’s fingers flex in a half-aborted nervous habit, but his eyes remain resolute. “Don’t go to your fight tonight,” he repeats.

Otabek takes his hands out of his pockets. He regards his messenger with guarded suspicion. “Did Lonnie send you?” It would make sense – the old leech has been trying to arrange matches for months, now. And never did learn what ‘no’ meant.

“What? No – no, that’s not-” The man is cut off by a city bus screeching to a halt in front of them, sinking down onto its haunches like an arthritic elephant. The doors pop open. Otabek boards.

He glances out a window, and – for a fraction of a breath – the exhaust shimmers in an unnatural silhouette around the Japanese man.  

Then he’s gone, and they drive off.

.

He stumbles out the back exit and the suddenness of the cool night is a shock to his system. Otabek winces through his nose, and he braces a shoulder against the dirty brick wall to steady himself. The dumpster smells like shit. He lets blood ooze out of his slack-jawed mouth, bending over to let it splatter between his shoes. His ribs protest. His pulse hammers in his ears. His knuckles sting. His neck aches.

Although all his pain receptors are  _ clearly _ responding to the stimuli of his lost match, there’s an ethereal quality to the moment. Disembodied, floating away on a hookah vapor. A neon store sign at the mouth of the alley casts dancing light on the moist asphalt, bright points of twinkling light like the stars that Otabek can no longer see here in the city.

The unmistakable sound of gravel crunching beneath shoes has him raise his head to see a darkened figure come for him. Not a figure – a man, the Japanese man from the bus stop that morning.

“I told you not to go,” the man says around a sigh. Shadowed providence clings to him like a lingering bad smell, and Otabek thinks,  _ ah _ .

The shorter man smirks, even as it pulls at his split lip. “What.” Otabek clears his throat. The Japanese’s glasses refract the streetlights and shield his eyes as he tilts his head. “What do you see? Violence? Injury?”

“Failure.”

Otabek barks out a startled laugh.

The man approaches, until they are an arm’s breadth apart; his expression is solemn, yet not without warmth. “My name is Yuuri Katsuki,” he introduces himself. “If you let me, I can help you get cleaned up.”

Otabek steps away from the wall, albeit on unsteady legs.

“You think you can walk a few blocks?” Katsuki asks, arms hovering at Otabek’s elbow as if doubting the other’s ability to remain upright. “My friend owns a bar around here.”

Otabek doesn’t remember agreeing. He grunts in affirmation, anyway.

.

It’s a painful march to the apparently-closed Inferno, and despite Katsuki’s reassurances, Otabek finds no respite inside the establishment. This is made immediately evident when, upon entering through the door, none other than Phichit greets them from behind the bar.

“Hi, Otabek!” Phichit exclaims, putting down an empty mug and waving enthusiastically. “Long time no see!”

The front door closes with a thud, and Yuuri flinches before glaring at Phichit. “You know each other?  _ Phichit. _ ”

“Come, hop up onto the counter, Otabek!” Phichit pats the wooden surface invitingly, and pouts when Otabek opts for a bar stool instead. “I didn’t tell you, Yuuri, because I knew you’d get the wrong impression.”

“Wrong impression?” Yuuri asks icily, sliding onto the stool next to Otabek. “What, then, is the  _ right _ impression?”

“Oh, calm down.” Phichit easily slides the cleaned mug onto a drying rack above their heads. “He didn’t make a deal with me,  _ per se _ . Not an official one.”

Otabek can feel the anxious energy radiating from the prophet beside him, but he does nothing to set the record straight. He isn’t pleased to hear that they’ve both discussed him before and that this is part of some plan. Phichit wasn’t taken by surprise, after all.

Yuuri angles his head and locks eyes with Otabek. “Did. You sell. Your soul. To. Phichit.” He grits out.

“I  _ told  _ you,” Phichit huffs, “it’s not like that! Besides, Heaven’s already got his number! Isn’t that right, Beks?”

“Don’t call me Beks.”

Phichit ignores him. “We just have an… arrangement! One that proves to be mutually beneficial to both parties involved!”

Yuuri isn’t impressed. “What is this arrangement?”

Otabek blinks, and for the briefest moment he allows himself to remember what it was like  _ before _ . Skinned knees and tattered jeans. Sleeping and rising within the same blackness of his aunt’s cellar. A syringe and a dirty spoon, dropped in an empty tub. Two people, slumped over in the front seats of their sedan, lips blue from a lack of oxygen. Running, tripping over a dog: its body bloated, tongue lolling, eyes festering pale putrid pus while the bullet hole in its head drips like forgotten stigmata.

“None of your fucking business,” Otabek says instead.

“Actually,” Phichit begins, eyeing Otabek up and down. “We’ll take you into the back, if you don’t mind. You’re getting blood all over my clean countertop.”

The employee room Phichit leads him to is modest in size and spartan in furnishing. Against one wall is a rusty sink, a mini-fridge, and a set of cabinets. A rickety table takes up most of the space, flanked by three metal fold-out chairs – one of which is already occupied.

“Good evening, Otabek, Phichit,” the other demon greets. His elbow is tastefully propped up on the edge of the table, wrist poised delicately against his neck.

“Sit down, Otabek – this is Christophe,” Phichit introduces with a smile. Chris winks, one set of eyelashes fluttering prettily over his pale cheek. “He’s a succubus, and co-owner of this fine business.” The shorter of the two stands on his tiptoes and starts to rifle through the cabinets.

Otabek knows well what curiosity did to the cat, but he engages anyway. “You mean an incubus?”

“No,” Phichit tosses over his shoulder. “Chris is a bottom.”

Otabek’s eyelids shutter closed. He inhales deeply and releases it in a pronounced sigh that isn’t quite loud enough to mask Chris’s giggling.

“I think I’ll step out and give our poor Yuuri some company,” Chris says. Otabek watches him leave, internally frowning at the way the succu- the  _ demon _ sways his hips.

Phichit drops a few rolls of bandages onto the table in front of them, and drifts to the sink. He turns the spicket on; after waiting a few seconds for the water to run clear, he dips the tip of a clean rag beneath the stream and shuts it back off.

Phichit scrapes the third chair closer and sits down. “Tough night?” He smiles again, not unkindly.

Otabek shrugs his shoulders. He reaches to take the towel from Phichit, but Phichit tsks at him and leans forward to wipe at dried blood streaks coming from the cut at his forehead. Otabek grimaces but doesn’t put up more of a fight; he realizes that it’d be pointless.

At this proximity, the younger man is able to see a thin pink line above Phichit’s upper lip. He’s reminded of scars he’d seen in commercials of children after having their cleft palate surgically corrected. While Phichit twists around to snag a band-aid, Otabek turns this discovery over in his brain. When demons take a human shape, they all manifest with some sort of physical malformity – whether because of the expended effort or because of their corruption, he has never learned. He’s heard of demons who have a limp, or vitiligo, or a missing limb; he thought he spotted a long scar along the part in Chris’s hair, but Otabek can’t be sure of it. He’s never seen one so small as Phichit’s.

The creature in question pastes a fat bandage on Otabek’s forehead. He hums happily, touch gentle as he cleans the human’s split lip. When he applies a pea-sized dollop of a disinfecting cream to his index finger, however, Otabek protests.

“No.”

“Come on, Beks!”

“ _ Don’t _ call me that.”

“Beckie?”

“Stop th-” he’s rudely interrupted when Phichit grabs his jaw – grip surprisingly firm, thumb pressing into a blackening bruise – to hold him steady. Otabek scowls as best as he can throughout.

Time passes between them in relative silence, save for the trickle of conversation floating to them from behind the door. Phichit is getting him an ice pack for his ribs when they hear another person enter the building.

“Katsuki!” the interloper barks. “I cannot  _ believe _ you got me to walk into this shithole.”

Otabek glances at Phichit. The demon turns around and flashes him a toothy grin. “That’ll be Yuri!” he whispers conspiratorially.

Otabek blinks. “I thought Yuuri brought me here?”

Phichit shakes his head. “No, this is  _ Yuri _ – you’ll see.”

Katsuki mumbles something, and Yuri stomps his foot.

“Hello again, blondie,” Chris purrs.

“Don’t talk to me, you filthy  _ rat _ .” Yuri spits, and despite the vitriol in his voice, it only makes Chris laugh and Phichit hide a chuckle behind his hand. Otabek blinks again.  _ Why is that so funny to them _ ? “Now, where is this guy?” Yuri continues.

“In- in the back,” Katsuki replies.

Not two seconds later and the stranger’s boot is kicking the door open wide. When he enters into view, his appearance is so overwhelming that Otabek must process it in stages. The boy – young man – angel – is positively radiant. Despite his grungy attire and sour countenance, there is an inherent glow to him that blooms in fireworks along Otabek’s peripheral vision. His hair flows like molten gold and his skin is as fine as porcelain. His eyes, though, betray his cherubic features. Bottle-green and cutting with diamond-edged precision, they say,  _ don’t fuck with me; I know not what mercy is. _

“Hello,” Otabek says. He barely notices Katsuki trail in as well.

Yuri squints at him, and sniffs pointedly. “You look like shit. What happened to you?”

There’s a warm unfurling in Otabek’s chest that he’s helpless to stop. He appreciates Yuri’s ruthless candor – a rarity, these days.

“Fistfight.”

Yuri quirks a brow. His shoulders relax incrementally, and his stance drops some of the hostility he was brimming with at first. “Did you win?”

Otabek levels him with a deadpan expression, and the angel smirks.

“Guess not.” His gaze drops down to Otabek’s lips, where the man can feel a new drop of blood welling in the fresh seam. Yuri extends a hand and, with a finger, he delicately swipes it up. Otabek allows it to happen, equally mesmerized. And then Yuri, full of nothing but surprises for the few minutes Otabek has known him, wraps his mouth around it and sucks.

Jade eyes roll back into his yellow head and Otabek stares, rapturous. Fast as lightning, he wipes his hand on his dark hoodie and murmurs to himself, “so Katsuki wasn’t lying.”

Katsuki shuffles his feet, and for the first time since they entered, Otabek directs his attention to him. He pouts, almost a little put out. “I’m a prophet, Yurio, not a-”

“That’s  _ not _ . My name.”

Phichit giggles.

Yuri turns back to Otabek. “So there’s this thing next Friday.”

“This thing,” Otabek repeats.

Yuri crosses his arms. “I guess you could call it a party. Another angel, Viktor, is hosting.”

Yuuri grimaces. Phichit’s grin only deepens.

“I don’t think that’s-” Katsuki starts.

“You should come,” Yuri finishes.

“Why?” Katsuki asks Yuri. He angles his body to face the other, and Otabek wonders at what underlying conversation they must be having.

“Why yourself?” Yuri challenges. “You’re there practically every weekend.”

Katsuki shrivels in on himself, diminishing his height by an inch or two. “Don’t act like you don’t know why that is.”

“Viktor has been riding my ass about bringing someone for  _ months _ , so I’m finally doing that. What’s your problem?”

Katsuki holds his tongue but doesn’t look any less troubled.

“Whatever.” Yuri tosses back his short-cropped hair and faces Otabek. “So? Are you coming or not?”

“We haven’t been formally introduced yet,” Otabek points out.

“People call me Yuri.”

“Is that what I should call you, then?”

Yuri rolls his eyes again. “You’re people, aren’t you?”

Otabek shrugs one shoulder. “Or so I’m told.”

Yuri’s lips pull into another smirk, though this time without menace. “I told you my name. Will you come?” It hasn’t slipped either of their minds that he has posed the question thrice now.

Otabek relents with honesty. “I don’t know.”

Yuri stares into him for a drawn-out moment. Otabek doesn’t want to know what he sees.

“Think it over,” Yuri says, and turns on his heel. Otabek is stunned; he can do nothing but trail the flash of blond hair out the doorway, rendered immobile.

“So, that was Yuri.” Phichit’s mouth is split wide, teeth bared without repentance. “I think he likes you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed, and make sure to subscribe to be notified when the next chapter is posted! 
> 
> thanks for reading ^_^


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